


A Long Shot

by MachaSWicket



Series: Gravel [2]
Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:29:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1229902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  Sequel to "Gravel."</p><p>ORIGINALLY POSTED:  2004.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Long Shot

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks To Em, Meg, Lu, and Philateley, as always. This one's for Devil Doll, who requested it. :)

The heat wakes her.

In truth, the heat keeps her from sleeping well in the first place, so that she wakes, restless and vaguely unsatisfied, when the early morning sun streams in through her open windows. Late May in Louisiana is hotter than hell, and so humid that even sleeping naked doesn't help keep her cool.

Knowing today would be her first free day after finals, she'd figured that she'd lie in bed for hours and read; instead, she rolls to her feet and steps into the shower, keeping the water on the cool side of lukewarm.

The respite is temporary. As soon as she steps out of the shower, she's perspiring again. She lets her hair drip down her back, hoping it'll help keep her cool. Dressing quickly, she wears as little as possible given her mutation, which means army green pants, and a thin, loose black shirt that she finds flattering.

Her plan for the day is no plan. No classes, no finals, no study groups -- nothing but free time. She has a ton of errands she could run. She should go grocery shopping. She should stop by the bookstore and sell back her psychology book. She should bring her car to a mechanic who can tell her what the hell makes the engine stutter under 2000 RPMs.

She doesn't let herself think about where she's _actually_ going.

Still, her stomach flutters a little as she opens the screen door, barely noticing its familiar squeal. She opens the car door wide -- it's never locked when it's parked out front -- and steps back to allow waves of heat to escape from the interior. It makes no discernible difference; she groans as she slides into the driver's seat. Obviously, the three years she spent in the north ruined her for southern summers.

And the piece of shit car she bought from that snake oil salesman in New Jersey doesn't actually have air conditioning.

Marie rolls down the windows and backs out onto the street, waving goodbye to Earl when he sticks his head out of the hothouse. How he can stand to be in there is totally beyond Marie, but it keeps him happy. She's sweating like crazy, leaning forward to let the air cool her back. The stop signs and stoplights are killers, forcing her to bake in the air's stubborn stillness and the heat of the sun.

When downtown New Orleans comes into sight, Marie's hands start to shake. She hasn't seen Logan since he showed up at her place. Nearly three weeks later, she's still reeling from his revelations.

He loves her.

It's nearly impossible to believe, and she's still not sure the truth will make a bit of difference. Because he slept with Jean.

Marie's not sure whether that's something she can get past. She can still remember so clearly that night in New York, standing there with her hand pressed to her breastbone, feeling like someone was squeezing her rib cage hard enough to make breathing impossible. Maybe the worst part about it was that somewhere, underneath it all, was the bitterness of relief. The worst had happened, and it burned beyond the telling of it, but at least she could stop dreading what she'd somehow always thought of as inevitable.

At least she could finally leave.

Marie turns on the car radio, determined not to obsess about this any more. The radio's tuned to some crappy top forty station, and she presses the scan button, listening to snippets of several songs before she hears Johnny Cash and starts to smile.

The scrap of paper with Logan's address is still on her refrigerator, but she memorized the information weeks ago. She's ached to drive past his apartment, but he's seen her car and might recognize it if she did.

She turns down Poydras, heading for Carondelet. It's not the quickest way to his place, but she doesn't spend much time in the Irish Channel and the last thing she needs is to add navigational challenges to her list of things to worry about. Traffic isn't bad, and almost too soon, she's driving up Carondelet, peering left and right in search of houses with the numbers visible from the street.

There.

Marie slows to a crawl, staring at the aging house at the corner. It's big and white, with small, old windows and a beautiful, iron-railed balcony. She drives another block and finds a space, parallel parking with all the skill of a 15-year-old with a learner's permit. When she decides she's far enough into the spot, she cuts the engine, but leaves the radio on until Folsom Prison Blues ends.

If she were the kind of person to believe in signs, she'd wonder what it meant to hear that song. Logan had turned her on to Johnny Cash years ago.

She tells herself not to be silly and climbs out of the car, closing and locking the door quickly. The sun beats down mercilessly, and the damp air barely moves. The heat slows her steps, or maybe it's her trepidation.

She wants to see him, but she's had too long to think about it. Last time, he showed up unannounced, her only warning the sound of his motorcycle roaring up to her place. This is different. Going to his apartment is premeditated. It might tell him something she's not ready to say, something she's not sure she _wants_ to say. Because she believes what he told her, but she doesn't trust him. Not yet.

Marie walks down the uneven sidewalk, skirting thick tree roots that have crept up through the concrete, moving more slowly when she's in the shade. As she passes a liquor store, she considers stopping for some liquid courage.

Too soon, she's standing in front of his building, its elegance dimmed only slightly by time. She squints up at it, wishing she'd remembered her sunglasses. The house is thirty years past its prime and would be a fixer-upper, if it hadn't been subdivided into apartments. Marie takes two steps up to the door and pulls open the screen, then pushes the heavy front door open. She's in a small, makeshift vestibule, which seems like it began life as a screened in porch. There are two doors in front of her, and her stomach flips at the sight of his familiar scrawl.

Logan.

She lifts her hand to knock, and then freezes. What if he's not home? What if she drove into the city to surprise him like he'd surprised her and he's not even there? Then he'll come back later, catch her scent, and know that she's been there. Would he drive out to her place, she wonders, or wait for her to come back?

"Stupid," she mutters, ignoring the odd hitch in her breathing. And she knocks.

It seems like hours before she hears anything.

Footsteps. Measured, familiar footsteps.

She's having trouble breathing in the short forever it takes him to open the door. He must've recognized her scent, because he looks only a little bit surprised when he pulls open the door. "Hi." Sweat makes his white t-shirt cling to him in a very alluring way. He's wearing jeans and cowboy boots, and damn if he doesn't have one of those giant belt buckles on.

It's so familiar it hurts.

Marie tries to smile. "Hi." It comes out too high and a little unsteady. She glances away from him. "I thought I'd..." She shrugs. "Stop by."

Logan steps back, opening the door wider. "Come on in."

Marie stares at him for a long moment, then steps through the doorway and into his home. It's strange to think of him having his own apartment. He's only ever had the camper, a hotel room, or his room at the Mansion since she's known him, and she's spent considerable time in each of those places with him.

He'd at least spared her the humiliation of fucking Jean in the bed they'd shared, but she'd never assigned any particular significance to that fact. At the time, she and Scott had gotten a little too blitzed to assign significance to _anything_ ; afterwards, she told herself to concentrate on forgetting all about Logan.

Even now, the memory stings, but she ignores it, turning slowly to take in the high ceilings, bare walls, and scuffed hardwood floors. The furniture is a little worse for the wear, but the elegant lines and rich colors somehow seem appropriate for the house.

But not for Logan, who follows her gaze around the place and then shrugs. "It was furnished."

She allows herself a small smile. "I figured you wouldn't pick a divan."

Logan frowns. "There's a divan in here?"

She laughs before she can help it, but sobers quickly. "Yes," she answers, gesturing at the deep blue divan. "Right there."

There's an awkward pause, and then Logan, sounding as close to flustered as she's ever heard, asks, "Do you want to see the rest of the place?"

Marie's not sure she wants to see his bed -- her lingering resentment over the way things ended has never managed to blunt her desire for him -- but she nods her assent. His bedroom is the only room she doesn't enter; even standing in the doorway and staring at his crisply made bed is almost too much.

The entire apartment is roomy and would be absolutely gorgeous with a couple coats of paint and some more furniture. As it is now, its austerity suits Logan. There's no air conditioning save the window unit in the bedroom, but he's got enough cross ventilation to make the rest of the apartment livable.

Marie stands in the middle of his kitchen and blinks back tears. A year ago, she'd hoped that they might someday get an apartment; at the same time, she'd dreaded what eventually happened -- Logan and Jean. She finds it strange that in all the time she spent wondering how much it would hurt when the inevitable happened, she never imagined what would happen afterwards.

She never figured out how she would live with it every day. She still hasn't quite mastered that feat.

"Do you want a beer?" Logan asks, his voice soft and almost tentative.

"No." Marie turns and tries to smile at him. "No. It's just -- Your apartment is lovely."

Those insightful eyes study her for a moment, and then he nods. "We should go somewhere."

She's half-relieved that he correctly interpreted her discomfort and half-annoyed at yet more proof that he's always known her better than anyone. How can he expect her to believe that he'd thought they were just sleeping together when he _knows_ her? He must've known she loved him, and that makes his betrayal unforgivable.

Marie sighs. "Yes. Somewhere with alcohol." Her hands are shaking, and she slides them into her back pockets, keeping her attention on the clean dishes drying in the dish rack beside the sink.

"The Quarter?" Logan suggests.

Marie considers. She's been to the French Quarter a few times since she got here, but she's always wandered on her own, admiring the architecture. It might be nice to find a bar in the Quarter with some moodiness and history. "Sure," she answers. "My car's down the street."

Logan nods. "Okay." He hesitates. "It's hard to park in the Quarter," he says. "We could take my bike."

Marie's stomach drops at the thought. She's torn. Besides the sex, they'd taken long drives together, up through the foothills and the mountains. She wants nothing more than to climb onto his motorcycle and wrap her arms and legs around his familiar form again, but she's not sure she can take being so close to him.

But he has a point about parking. "Fine," she answers, and follows him outside into the midday haze, wishing again for her sunglasses. His bike is around back, gleaming in the sun, parked beside a beaten-up old truck. When she reaches the bike, she stops short. She doesn't have a helmet, not anymore.

"Over here," Logan says, stopping at the passenger side of the truck and popping open the door. He glances over at her for a moment before reaching behind the seat to retrieve a small, familiar black bag.

Her gear, she realizes. He kept her gear.

Marie shakes her head in disbelief. "My--?"

"I brought it down here just in case," Logan interrupts quickly. He looks decidedly uncomfortable, and busies himself opening the bag and pulling out her dark green helmet and her lightweight black leather jacket.

Marie accepts them wordlessly, unable to speak. She wouldn't know what to say anyway. The leather jacket is like coming home, like putting on yesterday, and she's sure this is an incredibly bad idea. But Logan looks nearly as uncomfortable as she, so Marie takes a deep breath and picks up her helmet.

Logan slings a leg over the bike and looks over at her, and it's too familiar. He should never have come to New Orleans. He should've left well enough alone. Except that half of her wants to bury her nose in the back of his jacket and feel the wind stinging her eyes. Maybe if they drive long enough and far enough, they can outrun this horrible awkwardness.

"Helmet," she reminds him softly.

He doesn't need it, of course, but she's always made him wear one. The last thing she wants to do is watch him almost die -- again -- even if he will most likely heal. Logan nods and starts to get up.

"No, I'll get it," she tells him, moving toward his truck. His helmet is in the back of the truck, and when she pulls it out, she studies the gashes in the smooth, shiny black exterior. Her fingers trace a deep gouge, and she raises her eyes to his. "Logan?"

He's having trouble meeting her eyes. "Accident," he answers shortly. "I'm fine."

That's not the whole story, not by a long shot. "When?"

Logan shifts on the bike, his gloved hands squeezing tight on the handlebars. "While ago."

"Logan."

He sighs and drops his chin, staring at the gauges instead of her. "When you left," he answers, his tone rough. "I started to go after you."

Marie's heart rate kicks up a notch, and she's breathing hard all of a sudden. He came after her? She remembers every last detail of that horrible day, even when she wants nothing more than to forget.

The Day After, as she's come to think of it. She was hungover and miserable and so angry she could spit, but she managed to avoid Logan all morning as she packed, and a sad, hurt part of her had wondered whether he was still in bed with Jean. Whether he'd even notice that she'd left. Marie couldn't bring herself to go anywhere near Jean's bedroom, so she stayed in her room and cried and packed and called Tulane to make sure she could still accept the spot in the class, starting in January.

Then she banged on the door of Scott's small office until he answered, looking worse than she felt. He argued with her, but his heart wasn't in it. When he agreed to drive her to the train station, she wondered if he envied her ability to just up and leave the way he could never do. The only time she'd seen Logan that day was as she tossed her hastily packed bag into the tiny backseat of Scott's favorite sports car. Scott's low voice warned her a half-second before she noticed Logan, looking so fucking _normal_ , like _nothing_ had happened, standing just outside the front door of the Mansion.

She'd thought she would break if she saw him, grab her bag from the car and agree to stay; she never thought he would watch her leave with an unreadable expression on his face. That, more than anything, convinced her that she was right to leave.

They stared at each other for an endless moment. Marie stoically refused to let the tears come, and as she turned to get into the car, Logan said her name.

"Marie."

Startled, she looks up from the scored helmet in her hands. She remembers the raw burning in her throat during the ride to the train station, she remembers the intolerable wait for her train to leave, she remembers the muffled sob she couldn't quite repress as her train pulled away from the station. But she doesn't remember seeing Logan after she wordlessly turned from him and slid into the passenger seat of Scott's car.

"You came after me?" It's not what she wants to ask, but when she opens her mouth, that's what comes out.

Jaw tight, Logan nods. "I caught up to your train in Newark," he admits. "I saw you get into the taxi, and then I watched you buy your car."

Marie blinks. She has to ask, because it doesn't make any sense. He couldn't have seen her, or he would have stopped her. "You saw me?" He nods, and she shakes her head, not understanding. "Why didn't you--?"

"What could I have said?" Logan interrupts, his tone suddenly fierce. She's startled, until she realizes that his anger is directed at himself. "I fucked up so bad, Marie, and there was nothing I could say to make it right. I watched you buying that car, and the look on your face..." He stops, shakes his head. "I'd already hurt you enough, so I--" He stops again.

Marie waits, but he's still not looking at her. "So you what?"

Logan inhales slowly and turns his head, his hazel eyes burning. "So I watched you drive away." He lets that sink in for a long moment, and when she closes her eyes, she can imagine him, sitting astride his bike, that devastated look on his face as he watches her piece of shit car drive away.

"Logan..." But she doesn't know what she wants to say.

"On my way back to the Mansion, I got into an accident."

 _Jesus Christ_ , Marie thinks, _he drove into an underpass._ "Logan..."

"I'm fine," he repeats, and it's not true. Not really. Not if her departure had reduced him to driving into inanimate objects at high speed.

Marie looks more closely at the bike, and it's different. It's not his old bike, and she wonders how she could've missed that before. She swallows. "You totaled your bike?"

"Scott's bike, actually," Logan answers, a hint of irony in his voice now. "Another on the list of things I had to apologize to him for."

This time, it's Marie that has to look away. The pain is still so raw, even months later. She's not sure she can be friends with Logan again ever. She's not sure she can sit in a bar with him and not end up crying or punching him just to see if she can break his nose, however temporarily.

Marie takes a half-step back, away from the bike, away from Logan. "Listen, maybe--"

"Marie," he interrupts urgently. "Don't go." He raises one hand in supplication, willing her to stay.

She lifts her gaze to his, lets him see the anguish on her face. "It hurts, Logan. It still hurts."

He nods. "For me, too," he admits, his tone low and reluctant. "But it hurts more not to see you at all."

Marie considers his words, weighs their truth. As much as she hates to admit it, he's right. The six months before his reappearance in her life were the worst, even including those eight brutal months hitchhiking from Mississippi to Canada. Then, she'd been too young and stupid to let the grind wear her down too far. After Logan's betrayal... Well, she'd been convinced that life pretty much sucked and no one got happy endings and she might as well just learn to accept it.

She'd slept a lot, and her grades would probably reflect that.

No matter whether they can repair their relationship, it'd probably do her some good to get a little bit of closure. Marie looks away from him, her helmet under one arm, his balanced in the palm of her hand, and stares down at the gashes. If nothing else, his explanation about Newark proves that she doesn't know the whole story. Her mama always told her that the truth would set the healing process in motion.

Inhaling slowly, Marie turns back to Logan and holds out his helmet. "Okay," she says. "Let's go get a drink."

* * *

The drive to the Quarter is way too long and far too short for Marie. Logan's hips between her thighs, her arms wrapped around his waist, and her head leaning against his spine -- it's a lance to her heart. She knows, as she blinks back tears, that this is a very bad idea.

Logan parks in between two cars, ignoring both law and etiquette, just like always. She practically leaps off the bike, needing some distance to get her emotions under some semblance of control. She concentrates intently on slipping her jacket off, but the heat is so overwhelming that it makes little difference. Logan watches her, his expression carefully neutral, as he attaches their helmets to the motorcycle.

Marie stands on the sidewalk, ten feet away, and stares intently at the freak shop across the street. A year ago, Logan would have sidled up behind her, slid a possessive hand around to settle low on her stomach, and made a lewd suggestion about what sex toy they should invest in. Today, he stands beside the bike, hands dangling at his sides, and waits for her to say something.

A flash of anger -- why does she have to be the one to break this awkward silence? -- and Marie turns abruptly toward Jean Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop, the leather jacket dangling from her hand like a banner. "Let's go."

He follows a few steps behind her, letting her choose a table. Despite the bright sunlight, it's dark inside, and several degrees cooler. The only source of light is the sun streaming in through the windows and the small, white candles at each table. Marie winds her way toward the back, away from the t-shirted tourists. She drops into the seat and busies herself folding her jacket and placing it on the extra seat.

Logan hesitates beside her. "Marie, we don't--"

"It's fine," she lies, her tone taut, her hands folded carefully on the scarred tabletop. "Sit down."

He considers for another long moment, the slides into the seat across from her. "We don't have to do this," Logan says in a carefully expressionless voice. "If it's easier for you--"

"I'm not a china doll," Marie snaps. "This won't kill me."

There's tension in his shoulders again, and he sits stiffly opposite her, letting the awkward silence spool out. "I know that," he answers eventually. "But the last thing I want to do is hurt you."

"Could've fooled me," she snipes. His expression freezes over, and she wants to take it back, but there's a cheerful waitress there, suddenly, in a billowing cloud of Chanel.

"Margarita, rocks, salt," Marie orders, turning her head to scan the crudely engraved graffiti on the rough-hewn wooden walls.

Logan orders a whiskey, neat, and the waitress disappears, leaving them with a strained silence. "I was selfish," Logan says, low and so bitter that she can almost taste his regret. "I was never malicious."

The tears are unexpected, and Marie lifts her chin, blinking them back determinedly. "You can tell yourself that, Logan, but it's not true."

"It is," he insists. "I never intended to hurt you."

She shakes her head. "This isn't going to work," she mutters, looking around almost wildly. She can catch a cab back to her car, maybe take a nice long summer vacation in, say, Mexico. Or Jamaica. Somewhere far away from the man sitting across from her.

Logan tosses a twenty onto the tabletop. "Say the word and I'll take you back to your car," he says quietly, a note of defeat in his voice.

The thought of getting back onto that motorcycle with him is nearly more than she can bear. "No."

"Then stay," he says, and it's almost a plea.

Marie ducks her chin, staring down at her gloved hands on the tabletop. "I don't know if I can."

Logan doesn't answer, turning his head to watch the bartender mix drinks while she struggles to regain her composure. The waitress returns with a bright grin and that overpowering perfume. Marie almost smiles at the pinched expression on Logan's face; she can tell he's trying hard not to inhale until the waitress leaves the table.

With an unsteady hand, Marie reaches for her drink. She takes a long swallow, savoring the flavor. It's not nearly enough to calm her nerves, though to be fair, she's not certain anything short of an anesthetic could at this point. Still, the cool burn of alcohol feels delicious in the sweltering heat.

Carefully, Marie sets her drink down and forces herself to meet his eyes. "I don't know if I can explain it to you, Logan."

He looks puzzled, those beautiful hazel eyes fixed intently on her, but asks only, "Can you try?"

Marie sighs, her fingers resting on the stem of her margarita glass. As she starts to speak, she twirls the glass in slow circles. "I don't think you can understand, because you and Jean..." She shakes her head. "There's no parallel."

Frowning, Logan asks, "Parallel?"

Inhaling deeply, she tries to put that familiar feeling of inevitability into words, "There's no guy I've lusted after, no guy that you've always felt threatened by, no guy that I fucked despite the fact that we were sort of together."

Logan drops his gaze, staring down at the table for a long moment. He takes a swig of his whiskey, and carefully replaces it. "Any guy," he says finally. "Anyone at all."

Eyes narrowing, Marie studies him. "What?"

"The parallel." Logan lifts his gaze to hers, letting her see the anguish in his hazel eyes. "The thought of you with _anyone_ is unbearable."

His admission shouldn't warm her, but it does. He so clearly loves her; it makes her ache with relief and disappointment. If only he _didn't_ love her, maybe she could cut her losses and walk away. She could tell herself they could never work, and it would be the truth. But he does love her, and she can't make herself believe the lie.

At the same time, the mere fact that he loves her isn't enough. The thought of him with anyone is unbearable, but the thought of him with Jean is a living nightmare. It's orders of magnitude worse, and she's convinced that he's never going to understand that. Marie smiles bitterly. "It's not the same."

"Maybe not," Logan concedes, "but it's close."

"It's not," she insists heatedly. Because she won't allow him to deny this. "It's not the _one_ thing you've dreaded since you met me. Or the _one_ thing you've always known would happen anyway."

Logan watches her. "I always dreaded you leaving," he admits slowly. "I always knew you deserved better than me."

It's almost funny, and when she laughs, it sounds a little bit like crying. "So you set out to prove yourself right?" she asks, because bitterness has a taste all its own.

Wincing, Logan denies it. "I never wanted to be right." His long fingers wrap around his whiskey glass, holding on tight.

"If that were true," Rogue decides, "you would've had the self-control to be a man about it. You would've told me this--" She waves a hand between them-- "was over before you fucked Jean."

His lips are pressed tightly together, and he takes a long while before he answers. "I was an asshole. I _am_ an asshole. And maybe I can't ever know what it was like for you, but you need to believe that I never wanted to hurt you."

And that's the crux of the matter, right there. As long as his desire didn't conflict with her feelings for him, he was able to keep their half-assed relationship going. But as soon as the opportunity presented itself, his long-standing lust for Jean was more important than Marie.

That's what she can't forgive, and that's what he doesn't understand.

She considers swallowing it down, fighting her way through this unending conversation and then walking away for good. But she takes one last stab at explaining. "You knew how I felt," she says quietly. "You _knew_ no matter what you say now." She holds his gaze, challenging him to deny it. "And you _knew_ what you were doing would hurt me, but you did it anyway."

Logan can't hold her gaze any longer; he ducks his head, his hands tightening around his whiskey glass. "I wasn't thinking," he confesses roughly. "I should never have slept with Jean."

Marie nods, because this is the hardest truth. "But you did."

Logan doesn't move for several long moments, then he downs the rest of his drink in three swallows, dropping the empty glass onto the table. "I'm sorry," he says simply, and she knows it's true. She can _feel_ how much he regrets his actions, how much he regrets hurting her.

"I know," she answers, and she's still not sure it can ever be enough.

They sit in silence as Marie sips her drink, their gazes occasionally colliding, then skidding away from each other. The silence isn't uncomfortable, exactly, because there's a shared sorrow underlying it.

Finally, Logan clears his throat. "Do you talk to Jubilee and Kitty?"

Marie blinks, the question utterly unexpected. "Couple times a month," she answers. "And I talk to Scott, too."

Logan's jaw tightens, just a little. He struggles for a moment, then asks, "They're all..." He shrugs. "Good?"

"Yes," Marie answers. "They're all good." She hesitates, not sure if she should continue. "Even Scott," she says.

Logan nods slowly. "Good."

She wants desperately to ask the question, but she can't get the words out. Instead, she traces rings of condensation on the scarred tabletop, letting the water soak the fingertips of her gloves.

"I haven't talked to them since I left," Logan says quietly.

Marie looks up, startled that he'd answered the question she hadn't asked. She hates herself for feeling relieved; Logan had friends at the Mansion, no matter what happened with Jean, and he shouldn't have to sever all ties. "Why?" she asks, before she can censor herself.

Logan almost grins. "I think I fucked things up enough already. Didn't want to make it worse."

She accepts his answer at face value, commenting quietly, "You could talk to Hank. Or the professor."

"I figure if the professor needs me, he'll give me a ring," Logan answers, tapping his temple with his forefinger.

Marie downs the rest of her drink quickly, unable to bear the odd tension for much longer. Then she pushes her chair back and stands. "We should go."

Looking disappointed, Logan merely nods and follows her outside into the heated sunlight. She can't quite convince herself to put on the leather jacket, not with the humid air wrapping itself around her.

When they reach the sidewalk, Marie balks. She's not sure she can bear the motorcycle again, even for the short ride back to Logan's place. He moves quietly to the bike and unhooks the helmets, slinging a leg over the seat and holding her helmet out for her.

Reluctantly, Marie moves closer, taking the helmet from his hands. She's so close to him, and he's staring at her in that way she's never learned to forget, like she's some sort of goddess. It burns, somewhere deep inside, to _know_ that he really does love her, to _know_ they could've been so fucking perfect if he'd had the strength to resist temptation or if she'd had the courage to clarify what they were to each other.

She's blinking back tears again, her head turned to the side to shield her from his view. But Logan's gloved fingertips land on her chin, pulling her back around. Before she can inhale, before she can figure out what he's doing, his lips are on hers, soft and familiar and, God, it's so good.

It always has been, and she leans in, giving herself over to the feel, ignoring everything but the man kissing her. She can feel his desperation, his apology, his plea in the way he's kissing her. Her fingers curl into his t-shirt, and her control weakens. She jerks away, suddenly terrified she'll get his memories of Jean.

Wide-eyed, Marie takes two quick steps back, away from him. "No," she says, one defensive hand held up between them.

Logan sighs. "I'm sorry."

She just shakes her head. "I can't," she says, but she can't explain the rest, and she knows he doesn't understand. Her helmet is clutched tight to her side, and she's shaking.

She moves around the bike, around him, out into the street, one arm lifting desperately. _Cab_ , she thinks. _I need a fucking cab._

"Marie," Logan says, "let me drive you back--"

"I can't," she says again, sparing him the briefest of glances. "It's too much."

He doesn't move, but she can feel his gaze on her. "I shouldn't have pushed," he says finally.

"It's okay," Marie answers, but she's really not sure that it is. Because she's quickly losing her resolve to stay away from him, to keep her hands off of him, to protect her heart from him.

She waves her hand wildly, and a taxi screeches to a halt beside her. Marie forces herself to turn and face him before she leaves. "I just --it's too much right now." She gestures vaguely at the bike, trusting him to understand what she means.

Logan nods, looking defeated. "Okay."

She moves to the cab, opens the door to release a blast of blissfully cool air. Marie pauses before she slides into the seat. "Logan."

He looks up at her, his expression so hopeful and beautiful that it nearly breaks her. "Yeah?"

Marie musters her courage and hugs her helmet to her chest. "Do you mind if I hold onto this?" she asks, her voice shaking. "For -- for next time?"

For a brief moment, she's convinced that there are tears shining in his eyes, but he blinks, and all she can see is relief. He grins crookedly. "For next time," he confirms, and his own voice is something less than steady.

When she slides into the cab, she doesn't let herself say goodbye. She's not sure where this can possibly go, but she's sure whatever lies between them isn't over. Not by a long shot.

THE END


End file.
